Kate looked into the gas fire, trying to put the complex emotions into a simple sentence. She remembered a similar conversation with someone else, and the subject was suddenly uncomfortable. “Not really,” she said. “Anyway. Past history now.”
“But wouldn’t you like them to have seen their grandchild?”
There was an intense curiosity about him, almost a bewilderment. His daughter, Kate realised. He still doesn’t understand what went wrong. And all at once, as Collins sat there, she saw him as a father instead of a policeman, stranded on the wrong side of a generation, unable to fathom the hurts inflicted by his own blood. Was I like that? She had only ever considered the pain and injustices she’d received, not any she might have caused. The thought was disturbing, and she had enough to think about with the present. She pushed the doubts away from her, uncomfortably aware now that they would never completely go.
“All things considered, it’s perhaps as well they can’t,” Kate said, making light of it. “They’d share your views on how I got it.”
The Inspector looked down at his hands, smiling. “It’s probably an age thing.”
It was the closest they had come to acknowledging their differences. The concession made them awkward. Abruptly, Collins’s stomach gave a rumbling growl.
He looked startled. “Pardon,” he mumbled, patting it. Kate was amused to see him blush. “Well,” he said, putting his hands on his knees and standing up, “I’d better be going.”
Kate walked downstairs with him. He examined the freshly painted entrance. “Glad you got rid of the cat flap,” he commented, tapping the new door. He went out onto the path. “You remember what I said, now. Watch yourself.”
She was surprised to find she appreciated his concern. She wanted to tell him she’d enjoyed talking to him, but the words wouldn’t come. “Goodnight,” she said, and closed the door.
The young man was waiting on the other side of the road to the agency. Kate noticed him as she walked up the street, but after her first quick glance she paid him no further attention. Collins’s visit the night before had left her in an odd mood. She had gone to bed and, unusually, fallen asleep straight away. Even rarer, she had slept right through to her alarm clock going off. But she had woken with the dispersing memory of a dream, in which her father had stood outside the ruins of a house and accused her of burning it down with her baby inside. She had tried to tell him that she couldn’t have, because she was still pregnant, and she had looked down to see her naked and swollen stomach. Then, in the smouldering rubble of the house, she had seen a figure, and even though it was an adult she had known it was her baby. She had been happy, because that meant it had escaped the fire, but then she had seen it had Ellis’s features, only strangely unformed. And she had been frightened, because she knew he had started the fire, and also that it hadn’t happened yet. But when she tried to tell her father, she saw that he had become Collins. He stood in front of the smoking house and told her that things could be worse, they could always be worse, and then the alarm had gone off and woken her.
The dream had been disturbing, and rekindled unwelcome memories of bonfire night, when the man had thrown himself into the flames. Kate was still trying to shake off its pall when she became aware that the young man across the road was openly watching her.
She looked across at him again, expecting him to turn away. He didn’t. He was leaning against a street lamp with his hands in his pockets and his collar turned up against the morning chill. As she approached he straightened, breath steaming from his mouth, not taking his eyes from her.
Kate looked away. All at once she was conscious of how empty the street was. She began walking a little faster, hoping Clive had already arrived, and pulling the keys from her bag in case he hadn’t. The young man started across the road. She reached the door. It was locked. She fumbled with the keys, trying to appear calm, and as she got the door open he came up behind her.
“Kate Powell?”
She turned, hand still on the door, poised to dart in and slam it. “Yes?”
He looked in his early twenties, with long, reddish hair and a thick leather jacket. His eyes were very pale, a non-colour.
He gave her a grin. “Glad you’ve turned up. I was starting to freeze over there. My name’s Stu dark. Been waiting to have a few words with you.”
“What about?”
He nodded towards the half-open door. “Be warmer talking inside.” His grin seemed a permanent fixture.
“Talking about what?”
“I’ve got a proposition for you. I think you’ll be interested.” His brashness grated.
“Tell me what it is, and I’ll tell you if I am or not,” she said, her arm still barring the doorway.
“It’ll sound better over a cup of coffee.”
“I’m not letting you in, so either tell me what you want or go away.”
There was something about the way he looked at her that made his grin seem mocking. “Have it your way, love. It’s about certain posters that have been popping up all over the place.”
Kate felt the shock run through her. She tried to brazen it out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the ones with you on them.” His gaze flicked down her body. “Well, your face. I don’t think the rest is you. Not unless you’ve lost weight.” He held up his hands. “Only joking, love, no offence.”
She stared at him. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
“Journalist, if you don’t mind.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I’m freelance. I work for whoever’s paying. But I’m telling you, there’ll be so much interest in a story like this that they’ll be queuing up for it.”
“There isn’t a story.”
“Oh, come on, Kate — can I call you Kate? A nasty poster campaign accusing a pretty young woman of all sorts of things? It’s a great human-interest story.” He cocked his head to one side. “Specially when I’ve heard it’s the nutter who murdered that psychologist who’s doing it.”
the look of triumph in his eyes told her she had made a mistake.
“So it is him, then?”
“I’m not saying anything.” She made to go inside, but he put his hand on the door, holding it.
“There’s no need to get upset. I’m on your side. All I want to do is give you the chance to tell your version.”
“Move your hand.”
“If it’s a good enough story, there might even be a fair bit of money involved.”
“Are you going to move?”
“Look, it’s going to get written, anyway. It’s in your own interests to co-operate.”
She pushed on the door, barging his arm out of the way. He stood in the doorway, preventing her from closing it.
“So why’s Timothy Ellis so pissed off with you, Kate? What’s your relationship with him?”
The grin hadn’t slipped from his face. Kate went to where the fire extinguisher was clipped to the wall.
“Did you get rid of his kid, is that it? Is that why he flipped and killed the shrink?”
Kate tugged the extinguisher free and turned with it. His grin dropped when he saw what she was holding.
“Okay, okay, I’m going.” He stepped backwards onto the pavement as she advanced, pointing the nozzle, and almost bumped into Clive. Clive looked from him to the fire extinguisher in Kate’s hands.
“What’s going on?”
The journalist held up both his hands, edging away. “Nothing, just having a chat. It’s cool.” He reached the pavement edge. “Thanks for your help, Miss Powell.” Grinning, he walked across the road. Clive watched him go, then turned back to Kate. He nodded at the extinguisher.
“You’re getting pretty handy with that.”